Beyond Standard Protocol
by MagChange89
Summary: With a rare lull in the battle against the locust horde,Marcus reminisces on his greatest enemy:his past with the aid of a certain Lieutenant with a set of haunting memories themselves. But how far is too far down the path? Some Anya/Marcus Shenanigans
1. Chapter 1: Rise and Shine

**_A Gears of War 2 gap filler pseudo/one shot by Magchange89  
*Copyright: All of the characters belong to Epic, all rights reserved.  
UPDATE: Got a little more feedback and it is bueno. Keep it up. Also, I cleared certain verbiage that you may have confused for homosexuality. If that's what you're looking for, my apologies, it's not here. Almost finished with Chapter two so keep an eye out- M.C_**

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Screaming. It always started with the screaming. The muffled shrieks of terror only gave way to the macabre. Be it the savage slice of a sharpened bayonet, the angered roar of a revved chainsaw, chewing up it's victims hungrily with its' dozen metallic teeth, or the crushing of brittle bone under an uncompromising boot, the symphony of destruction played on with it's quartet of assault rifles and concussive percussion of grenades and artillery. Amongst all this madness and murder, came the realization there was a certain rhyme and reason to it, a war where humanity could forgo all that made it humane and unleash the deepest primitive instinct: That of the kill. That instinct came easy now, fueled by a deep hatred. It was almost irresistible, but with it came a costly burden. No man was safe from the death he could deal, and time and again, it was his own weary eyes that bear witness to the demise such men. In this particular battle, history always repeated itself. Each fallen comrade had a story, their loss stabbing him deeper than the sharpest blade ever could. It was internal damage, and it was kept inside. Yet he shed no tears for these men, knowing they were soldiers, and they had died serving a purpose: to fight to the death for life. There was a certain security in this fact, but there was an exception. One loss so terrible that it seeped through his thick emotional skin and into the very center of his blackened soul, until finally even he couldn't take it anymore.

And then he woke up.

With a grunt, Sergeant Marcus Fenix snapped open his icy blue eyes, blinking away the thin film over his vision until it lifted, reality shifting clumsily into focus. The land of the living welcomed him back with a tangerine splashed sky as a backdrop and a cool blanket of mud as a shelter. The lingering scent of worm blood was the icing on the cake, but the fact he was alive left nothing to complain about. He left that to Baird. Dawn's early light drove the nightmares away, but their dark presence lingered in his focused mind like the stench of a rotten corpse. "What I get for sleeping" He growled to himself, planting the stubby flat ended butt of his lancer assault rifle into the soft earth with a muffled thud to support his considerable weight.

His legs strained in disagreement and his balance was off, but only temporarily; the sheer will of the man and the mass of his combat boots anchoring him into the ground. The environment seemed vaguely familiar: It was an odd considering that for four miserable years, Marcus had lived in complete and utter darkness, and when there was any daylight to burn, there was nothing but a cell of cold lifeless steel to greet him. It had almost driven him insane, but here, it was different. There was a deceiving sense of serenity. The air was crisp and the hulking redwoods were healthy and rich. But all of this was just filler to the veteran; akin to a dream, this was a false heaven. And as much as he hated to admit it, these rich woodlands would only end up like all the other battlefields throughout Sera. Nature would retreat within itself as humanity shared it's last breath with it. Because if and when mankind fell to the locust horde, nature would be turned out like a whore, converted to conquest beyond this planet, and what once was pure, would become a perverse reflection of itself, terribly mutated and beaten into submission until it carried out the queens' will, like the Brumak.

But they'd have to kill his ass first.

The distant rumble of Troikas and the melodic thud of artillery from beyond the sheltered foxhole brought an odd sense of peace. Like the rest of Sera's humans, he had been fighting for as long as he could remember. Against his father wishes for him to follow in his footsteps, against the Union of Independent Republics, who waged a war of unprecedented destruction out of jealousy and ignorance for far too long. He had fought for his honor, he had fought his inner demons as he wasted away in prison for four agonizing years. And now, he was fighting for the survival of an entire species. Some things never changed.

Marcus took a moment to sit and listen to the soundtrack of battle, watching his men, his gears escape to unknown worlds of impossibilities and fantasy with their Lancer's held tight and their hopes up high. Delta squad had been taking advantage of their downtime, even Cole, whom, like namesake, operated like an unstoppable freight train, had succumbed to slumber. They had all needed it. The night before, Sergeant Fenix and the rest of Delta had been ordered to halt and fortify its position to await further orders. In commands eyes, this downtime was considered a period of tactical re-assessment, but for Marcus and the battle worn gears, it was a chance to stop and relax. The five hour nap had been the first ounce of solid sleep the weary veteran had since the detonation of the light mass bomb handed the locust horde it's first setback six long months ago, and it felt as though it had been earned rather than taken. A reward for cutting his way out of a giant fucking worm. There was an air of amusement to this fact, but smiling was out of the question. There was simply no way the could bring himself to bear so much as a grin. Not after all that had happened; Not after the death of an entire city, or Tai.  
Not after Carmine..

And it was as if suddenly the brilliant morning sky dulled at a somber notion: These weren't the first losses. They certainly wouldn't be the last either. But he had been alive long enough to realize these were necessary losses. It was simply war. That's all it really was. And nothing could change that. Not sheer will, Nor faith. Not even love.

He wished Dom would figure that out already.

Marcus shifted his attention to his best friend, and Delta's second in command. Corporal Dominic Santiago lay immobile in the corner of the trench, propped against the makeshift walls with a bolder as a chair and the cool mud floor as his blanket. Marcus could have pretended that the younger Santiago was amongst those who could elude their problems in their sleep, but with Dom it was never really sleep, more of an uneasy fugu state. It had only gotten progressively worse. Prior to this latest assignment, there hadn't been any real thought given to Dom's occasionally erratic behavior, never mind his connections with the stranded. But the signs were getting harder to ignore. Several outbursts and near suicidal charges later it was clear something was wrong. The rest of the squad had their suspicions as to what, but only Marcus knew the story in its entirety, and that was the way it would remain. Frankly, it was better this way, everybody was missing somebody, and the obvious truth was bound to be found in due time. Even in his subconscious state, the signs were there. If not in the observation of a faithful husband dreaming of his beloved wife, it was the wrinkled, earmarked photograph that served as a window to a happier moment in time, with the soul of a man being held in the bulky gauntlets of his empty shadow. "What they don't know can't hurt em" He thought, taking one last look at the men under his command before spinning on the ball of his foot and climbing up the steep mouth of their makeshift dugout, figuring he'd enjoy what little peace there was to be had in a world at war.


	2. Chapter 2: Emergency Hotline

Chapter Two: Emergency Hotline

**Note: Alas after a year of neglect, frustration, and tons of ice cream, I have finally completed this chapter. Hopefully You dear readers out there that have been enjoyed the first installation of this series enjoy this next one. But before you do so It is time to take a crash course in military jargon! For all you less militant folks out there, reading this will help you understand just what the blazes the characters are saying.**

**ASAP:** As Soon As Possible. An obvious one but I cover all my bases =D

**CAP****: **Combat Air Patrol. Basically scouting out enemy airspace, suspected or otherwise.

**OBJ:** Objective. Any mission objective is an OBJ Whether it is a location or a task.

**Oscar Mike:** A shortened term for on the move.

**ETA**: Estimated Time Of Arrival.

**Mikes:** Minutes. Fifteen mikes is fifteen minutes.

**RTB: **Return to Base

"Control! This is Kilo squad under heavy enemy fire in Montevado city Sinkhole! Grub infantry, light cavalry, and Reavers! (An Explosion) Our main radio link is down, we're working off emergency freq and taking casualties. Requesting KR support ASAP, over!"

The hoarse, uneven voice hollering into Lieutenant Anya Strouds' comset earpiece did so in the manner one would pray to the lord above for a bonafide miracle, or divine intervention. And it struck her as odd that of all people, it was her who was tasked with the micro management of countless men and respectively, their fates via orbiting satellites and encoded radio bands. On occasions, it almost felt like she was indeed a higher power, watching all that unfolded on the ground with the mere press of a button and the scroll of the mouse. But if anything, this feeling of divinity was temporary, for what might appear as diminutive insects talking on the satellite feeds were in actuality Coalition Gears. Armor laden soldiers with exposed hearts. Men with souls, with families and the profound fear they wouldn't ever see them again. It was her sole purpose to aid these men in any way possible: to be their eye in the sky, their emergency panic button, and information feed all at once. If it sounded like an overwhelming task, that was because it was. Though where others would simply crack under the pressure, the Lieutenant remained firm. Not out of ignorance, but rather necessity. As an officer in the upper echelon, it was apparent the gears were essentially the last vanguard, the sole coalition, and by extension humanity. Along with their training, she was what kept them alive. It was almost like an unspoken mutual agreement, with each party well aware of the ramifications if they failed to support one another:

Humanity only cooperated with itself when it was _desperate. _

"Roger that Kilo, just hang in there, I'll see what I can do from my end, over." After pinpointing the precise location of the transmission, she went to work, surveying her options. Unfortunately for Kilo, the Hammer Of Dawn, The Coalitions ad hoc response to its lack of artillery pieces, was down. The satellites equipped with the system were probably somewhere on the other side of the planet. Or simply reduced to space junk from years of neglect. Either gun ships would just have to do. With a quick flick of a switch attached to the ear mounted device, the lieutenant disconnected from the cacophony of war and tapped into the King Raven Support Channel. To the "Air Mavericks" she mused silently before relaying the request to Coalition Air units.

"This is Control, friendly ground element Kilo requests fire support mission in Montevado city sinkhole region, grid coordinates, 2,6, 9,5. Any ravens in the immediate vicinity be advised: Kilo has confirmed sightings of hostile air units, proceed with caution. Run CAP if possible, over."

And then it went quiet.

Granted was only a temporary silence, but it certainly made a long term statement. She wasn't surprised: the reluctance of Coalition pilots to undertake support operations in areas so deeply rooted in the enemies sphere of influence like Montevado was by now, well known, if not justified. All too often, the price these daring airmen paid for this risk was the highest of all, and the loss of valuable air assets such as the Ravens, along with their more valuable crews from insertion and extraction missions in these hot zones seemed reason enough to be weary. Yet despite having the odds stacked against them, there were seldom disagreements. Like their elite ground force counterparts, these were a rare breed of men and women, most of whom had earned their veterancy having been forged in the fires of battle. Trained intensely to a point where their machines were merely an extension of their being. Never mind being as cocky as all get out.

Despite the general verdict amongst the pilots that operations in such conditions were nothing short of suicide runs, insubordination was out of the question. These were highly trained, highly motivated individuals, and when there was a challenge, there was always a volunteer to accept it.

Who responded was a completely different story.

"That's a Solid Copy. This is Pegasus Two-Nine. We're Oscar Mike from our last Objective six kilometers north of the OBJ. All weapons primed and prepped for a run. Should be on station ETA 15 mikes. Tell Kilo to hang tight, time to sweep these grubs under the rug, over."

Her response did not come by way of some snappy straight talker, instead the words were poured into her ears by a deep fried country boy with a slick demeanor and a penchant for over the top bravado. Needless to say, It took some time to regain composure. Throughout her career, Anya had spoken with her fair share of characters, and the variety never failed to amaze her. For a race on the brink of destruction, there were certainly some live wires in the bunch.

"Uh roger that Two Nine, We're working on that right now. Standby for green light. Control out"

Another shift in frequencies brought the operator back to the Infantry network, her return greeted by battle chatter, and thunderous fire blanketed in static from the other end of the line. Not exactly helpful. With a furious flurry of keystrokes, the Lieutenant locked onto their Area of Operation, and tapped into one of the few active imaging satellites above Sera, finding herself staring at a grainy top down view of the battlefield. What she saw soon explained everything words couldn't. The scene that greeted her from above the sinkhole was nothing less than apocalyptic. What had at one point been an inhabitable urban center had been leveled; seemingly torn asunder by the wrath of an angered god. Embers licked hungrily at the skeletal remains of the necropolis, a maggot thriving on the flesh of the dead.

And then she remembered.

With the alacrity of a lightning bolt, phantom memories pushed aside long before, reemerged, slipping past her mental curtain. And suddenly, she was back at the turning point; the day Montevado became little more than a large ditch. In that instant, the Tollen city accident ceased to be accidental in any way. It was a moment not soon to be forgotten, and her head quickly flooded with a tidal wave of nightmares from that fateful day. The agonized shrieks and fruitless prayers of the hopeless followed by the lifeless crackling of shattered comlinks as the ill fated city plunged below the surface into the foreboding oblivion below leaving an imprint in her memory too vivid to be washed away.

Despite the static nature of her field, never in her decade of service had she felt so utterly defenseless, so vulnerable as she did that day, trapped behind a desk, witnessing the untimely deaths of thousands through the confines of an LCD monitor. Despite a natural streak of unwavering optimism, even the hardliner in her recognized the gravity of the situation. She had foolishly vowed to do all in her power to prevent it from happening again.. And instead it had happened _again_.

The slow thundering thud of hammer bursts and the incessant chittering of automatic lancers.

"Control? Control! Where's that support?! We're getting fucking butchered out here!"

In the blink of an eye, she was back, returned forcefully to the here and now. The professional in her cursed silently for slipping into the past and continued dealing with the future. Though it was unpleasant at best. The crossfire was a laser light show of awesome terror. Saturated bolts of energy flying from all directions throughout the demolished city square, all of the luster of its' former glory long demolished, having crumbled along with the once majestic architecture. Above, snarling abominations akin to mounted cavalry known simply as reavers continued to circle around the Gears like a vulture, waiting for that one stupid move, as its riders stirred up the anger in their beast. In the middle of it all, what she assumed was Kilo squad hunkered down, beyond collapsed pillars and decrepit walls, returning fire with limited success. The dead were strewn across the center like fall leaves, crumpled and faceless to her eagle eye. It was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed, and finding her strength, she spoke.

"Kilo, this is control, pending strafing run confirmed, inbound on your position. ETA, 10 mikes, and danger close, so keep your head down over."

She tried her hardest to bury the trembling in her voice with a false calm. The deafening rattle of gunfire and inaudible battle chatter blaring through her headset masked the weakness, but she still felt it. It rarely showed, and she suspected it was the lack of sleep that brought it out of her now. It was her job to try and stay on top of things. Sleep came secondary, she of all people knew this. It was her sacrifice for the Coalition. For the Gears.

The COG was all she knew. Practically raised into the army, Anya had been accustomed to the risk of death the job entailed, and had almost grown used to it. But that didn't necessarily mean she liked it. She of all people, knew loss. Colonel Hoffman tried to downplay it to her in the way only he could. "You'll find it gets easier over time Lieutenant." At the time she had just nodded at him dumbly, trying to forget the terrible responsibility she had been given along with the other CIC officers. They had the power to command, the power to succeed, but they also had the power to _fail_. And that was the most dangerous power of all.

Anya was swimming in her own thoughts, pouring her concentration into the pixilated screen when a bulbous smudge of ashen gray appeared from beneath a low lying awning and into the center of the screen. Bound in thick plates of armor, it stood head and shoulders above the scurrying drones who followed his lead as a school of fish flocks to a great white. The squad seemed to notice this creature almost immediately because they screamed out its name before, she could even utter a word into her headset.

"BOOMER!"

It all happened so fast, a blink of an eye and it was over, but for the lone Intelligence Officer holed up in the Jacinto command center thousands of miles away, its brevity would do nothing to offset the damage done, -replayed long after the fact, plaguing her conscience. It was obvious once the contrails spewed forth from the barrel of the massive grenade launcher that no advice in the world could save Kilo squad from their fate. A chunk of her wanted to think it would be different, A weapon malfunction, the boomer had terrible aim, the cover would take the brunt of the projectile, anything that would give Kilo Squad a chance, she wished for it. But in the end all hope of such rarities was crushed by a sinister looking projectile guided by a cable soaked in black magic. With terrible force, the grenade collided into the makeshift perimeter, engulfing its defenders in its tainted influence. The last image of the doomed Gears the Lieutenant caught was a limbless torso as it flew across the screen and just out of the focus of the cameras angle. The guns posted around the perimeter fell silent, as did the radio link. With a deliberate, unconcerned stride, the locust horde descended upon the broken square and its broken defenders, and with each step, the light of hope faded back into the dark. Anya attempted one more time to reach a survivor, using an encrypted ringtone, a standard procedure used to raise squads too deep in enemy territory to respond using word, but met only dead air on the other side. With a single keystroke, the image dissolved into white noise. It was best to keep them mobile, Inkers would render the ariel view of useless in the next few hours. Without an eye in the sky, she was just as blind as everyone else. The voice in her comlink brought her back to the reality of the situation.

"Control this is Pegasus Two-Nine, we are less than five mikes away from our target area. Are we still a go for our attack run over?"

She had enough blood on her hands today, a great deal of it spilled with no gain. And she wasn't proud of it. In her line of work the greatest sort of victories came from the days where everyone came home alive. But those days had long been gone. The only thing they could do now was at least cut the losses. Even if it meant potential survivors would be forgotten. Survival in Kilo Squads case was just about impossible, but a certain youthful part of her tried to deny it. To no avail. Frustrated with the situation and her role in it, Anya pressed her transmit button, and gave her response.

"That's a negative Two Nine. Stand Down and RTB for refueling and rearming over."

It took Pegasus Two-Nine a noticeable period of time to issue a response but in the end crew obeyed their orders. Difficult or not.

"Roger that Control RTB, ETA 40 Mikes. Two Nine out"

"Solid Copy Two Nine Control Out."

With a chirp she returned to the base channel and exhaled shakily, leaning back in her leather office chair, with a mug of freshly brewed caffeine in one hand, a folder of unread after action reports in the other, and the dependance of the entire COG army on her shoulders.

Yes, people like Anya Stroud were given the task of playing gods, but even gods make mistakes.


End file.
